


Office Hours

by captain_tots



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-09
Updated: 2012-09-23
Packaged: 2017-11-11 18:20:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captain_tots/pseuds/captain_tots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A juvenile delinquent thinks that she can breeze through six weeks of court ordered therapy, but her plans to outsmart her psychiatrist begin to go awry as she becomes an unwitting subject in Dr. Crane's experiments. Pre-Batman Begins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Session One

**Author's Note:**

> For Angel.

They told me I was in real big trouble this time, but they were wrong. I should have seen it coming, after all, this city is a mess. They don't have the time or the money to spend disciplining a seventeen year old girl with a less than spotless criminal record. The sentence was a joke; six weeks of court ordered therapy from a criminal psychiatrist. I've been to therapy before, but they're all making a big fucking deal about this time, because, "H _e wrote a book, Jessica, isn't that wonderful? He's a real doctor, not a med school washout with a Psychology degree and elbow patches."_ I know he also practices at Arkham, where all the big time crazies go, a distinction my parents are not eager to mention _._ And why should they want to remind themselves? After all, if this guy is The Real Deal, as they're making him out to be, then it must have taken a nice chunk of my college fund to get me in to see him.

Not that I'm ever going to need that money for such a purpose, because the road I've taken doesn't have an escape clause. I'm sure he and I will have a few nice chats about my repressed feelings for my father or some other Freudian babble for six weeks, and then I'll be eighteen with a clean slate and no one to answer to but myself.

All that stands between me and my freedom is six weeks with Dr. Crane.

I think I can manage that.

* * *

_Session One_

It's a rather typical office, bland, but not bare. The desk is a solid metal material, not some pretentious mahogany relic with a thousand drawers. The walls are a sterile white, and the lights seem too bright for their own good. I imagine my entire face is lit up like a Halloween pumpkin. There's the obligatory six or seven bookshelves, covered in hefty diagnostic manuals, pharmacy guides, and the lighter reading up top: journals and paperbacks with ominous titles such as, "Guide to the Homicidal Mindset." No thank you.

Dr. Crane himself is sitting down at his desk, shuffling through papers in what I can only assume is an attempt to make himself look Busy and Important. He's a lot younger than I expected, and I'm not entirely sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing. Young professionals tend to be more tenacious, more convinced they can root into my subconscious mind or whatever. But, at the same time, they're easy to throw off. If I can feed him a red herring about some traumatic childhood experience and milk it out for the next six weeks, I'm in the clear.

I don't think red herrings are intended for literal consumption, but I'll have all the time in the world to think about that once I'm done here.

"Please, have a seat, Miss Walker."

"Just 'Jessica' is fine."

"Well then, Jessica, please have a seat."

I oblige, not wanting to set myself into the defiant archetype just yet. Trying to screw with them too early in the game is a mistake.

"It's a pleasure to meet you. I hope that our time together will be beneficial for both of us." He extends his hand across his desk to shake mine. This is the part where he attempts to establish himself as the good guy, someone who cares about me as a person and not a paycheck.

"I've heard a lot about you, Dr. Crane. Especially about your book."

He smiles at me, and it's almost shy, the way he looks down at his desk when I mention it.

"Being published certainly has it's perks."

"So, what's it called? No one ever actually mentioned that part."

His expression changes rather quickly, from shy to spurned, and he seems to be holding in a sigh.

"It's called The Psychology of Fear. The title was more popular than the contents, to be truthful, a good number of humanists and the like disagreed rather vehemently with some of my stances... enough about that though. As you seem to know a good deal about me, I'd like you to tell me about yourself, Jessica."

He takes his glasses off when he says the last part, and gives me a good look straight in the eyes. It's a technique he must have practiced, because his eyes are a bewildering glass blue that sets me temporarily off guard.

"Uh, I'm Jessica Walker, like you said... I'm seventeen, I go to Saint Mary's in Gotham... what else do you want to know?"

"Anything you think is important for me to know about you. Do you have any hobbies or interests?"

"Who the fuck _doesn't"_ is what first comes to mind, now that I'm recovered from the disarming stare, but I'm reeling in the snark for the time being.

"Oh, normal girl stuff, you know? Shopping, listening to music, hanging out with friends..."

"Shoplifting, selling pirated CD's, casual drug use?"

He throws me for a loop again—he seems to have a talent for that.

"Well, if you already knew, what was the point in asking?" I punctuate the remark with a beaming smile.

"I like getting a feel for the patient's self concept. You see yourself as a typical teenage girl?"

"Yeah, I do. The charges were all blown way out of proportion. Just a little youthful experimentation, no one was hurt, the trial was really just intended as a 'lesson,' something to scare me straight."

"Mhm. I believe something was brought up in the transcript about your potential connections with mob dealings? That sounds a bit more serious than youthful experimentation."

Shit, this one did his homework.

"I made a _purchase_ directly from the supplier once; I think this was mentioned during the proceedings? I wouldn't ever do it again, and the experience made me choose to stop using."

"Is that so? Your last urine sample tested positive for narcotics."

I make an involuntary wince. I expected this guy to be clueless, but he's got my medical charts and the court transcript, and God only knows what else. It's time for a change in strategy.

"Maybe I'm a pathological liar?"

"No, Jessica, I don't think you're a pathological liar. Your last psychologist had you pegged as a histrionic, which is a generalized, and actually rather sexist, diagnosis."

"So, what's wrong with me? Did my parents potty train me too soon?"

He fiddles with his glasses again. I look down at the desk; I don't want to get all flustered this time.

"If I'm going to be honest with you, Freudians are full of shit—pardon the pun. What your problem is... I think you're afraid."

I'm surprised to the point that I look up straight at him and resist the urge to flinch.

"Afraid of what?"

"We have plenty of time to figure that out." He cracks his knuckles, like he's going to pull a hardhat out of his desk and go to work on my psyche.

"How wonderful," I whisper to myself.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" He looks up at me.

"I said, 'That sounds wonderful."

"And did you mean it?"

"I really can't outsmart you, can I?"

"With all due respect, Jessica, if a teenager was able to outsmart me in my own profession, I would ask for a refund on my university tuition."

I can't tell if it's meant to be funny, because he says it with such a lifeless inflection that it seems serious. I laugh anyway.

"Let's take a step back. My job is to uncover what could possibly make a perfectly ordinary girl from an affluent background turn seemingly overnight into a petty criminal."

I don't say anything, but I can tell he wants a response from me.

"And your job is," he goes on.

"I'm not sure."

"Your job is to be honest with me."

It's the way he looks into me that makes me think if I'm dishonest, he'll be able to tell right away.

"Tell me about the first time you ever committed a crime."

He pulls out an actual fucking clipboard from his desk and scribbles down a few words unseen to me.

"The incident at JC Penny?" I got caught skipping out the door with a three hundred dollar gold necklace stuffed in my bra. Not my fault that no one was watching the jewelry counter.

"Your first crime, not the first time you got caught. The average shoplifter is caught about once every fifty incidents."

"Well, if you want to know the first time I grabbed a Pepsi and walked out with it, we'll be here all day, because I was thirteen."

"And was that incident premeditated?"

I hate the way he says _incident_. Don't get me wrong, he has a nice voice, it might be soothing in other circumstances, but it just seems violating right now, the way all his words seem to be probing at me. _Incident._

"No. I was thirsty and didn't have any money, so I took it. Survival, right? By an evolutionary standpoint, that makes me more developed, right?"

He's not amused. I take it he's not a fan of self-diagnosis, because he treats me to the same expression I got when I told him I thought I was a pathological liar.

"When was the first time you made the conscious decision to steal something before entering the store?"

"You mean, like, I didn't just take whatever? I had an idea of what I wanted?"

He nods for me to continue.

"A week or two after my birthday. I got myself a present."

I wave my right hand in front of his face so he can see the ring. It's cute, a nicely set ruby paired with two tiny diamonds set in a gold band. No one ever seemed to notice that it suddenly appeared.

"And you stole this directly after you turned seventeen?"

"Yeah, like I said, birthday present."

"Were you unsatisfied with your other gifts?"

"No, I'm not that petty. I just liked it, and you know, thought maybe I deserved it? Something nice for getting a year older?"

"And the rest of these thefts, did those have a clear motivation?"

I shrug. It seems obvious to me.

"Money."

"For..." he urges me to continue, as if money isn't enough of an answer in it's self.

"Drugs?"

He writes more on that clichéd fucking clipboard, like he's some big shot movie psychiatrist. I don't like him, I decide, and the revelation helps me relax. I went into this hating him, and my resolve was lost somewhere over the past few minutes. Just because he's not like any others doesn't make him _better_ , in fact, it makes him a nuisance.

"Tell me about your social life, Jessica. Friends... boyfriend... girlfriend?"

"Some friends, yeah. No one too close. And they would be a _boy_ friend if I had one."

"You're a pretty girl. Any particular reason you're not in a relationship?"

I feel my face go flush with the dreaded awkwardness of the situation. I wouldn't characterize myself as particularly pretty—I'm fairly average in all accounts: five foot four inches, dirty blonde hair in an ever present braid, glasses swapped out for contacts, dressed in a navy button down shirt and khaki's. I thought it made me look professional this morning, in retrospect, I look like a retail employee.

The blush from the compliment lasts for all of two seconds before it occurs to me that he must be trying to get a rise out of me and gauge my reaction. I reel it in.

"Well, you're a pretty _guy_. Any reason you're not in a relationship? Girlfriend...boyfriend?"

I don't see anything objectionable about the last scenario, but the implication bothers some men to such a degree, I couldn't resist. It's only fair. He is pretty too. Kind of femme, high cheekbones and wispy hair and what have you. It's an easy shot, and I doubt it's going to provoke him, but I can at least close the subject.

"Back to you, did you have any close friends at one time?"

I smirk at him, satisfied with the change in topic.

"Yeah, before I got into all these... _incidents_. They said they wanted to help me and all that, but I didn't want them too. We all still talk, just from more of a distance now."

"And does this bother you?"

I shrug.

"We went our separate ways. It happens, right?"

He scribbles more. I bet he's not actually taking notes at all, just doodling or getting ready for a big, serious case. I probably mean absolutely nothing to him; just a patient who's not trying to bite his face off or something.

"When did you start using narcotics?"

"Um... probably around when I turned seventeen. There was blow, you know, at some party, and I tried it, and I liked it."

"What's your typical usage pattern?"

I get a bit red in the face, maybe the nose too.

"Whenever I have it."

He looks up from his clipboard.

"There's an experimental treatment my colleagues are looking into for narcotics addiction; it's an herbal supplement that helps regulate dopamine levels. You fit the profile for a potential subject very well. If you agree, then I would ask you to take a 100 mg dose half an hour before our appointment next week,; so I can supervise."

"Supervise?" I ask.

"You might have an allergic reaction."

"And there's no prescription or anything for this shit—stuff?"

"It's a dietary supplement, not a drug."

I'm kind of wary, but he is a doctor, and whatever it is can't be worse than what some of the stuff I've snorted is cut with.

"I'll try it."

He nods, and writes on the infernal clipboard.

"I think this will be very beneficial for you, Miss Walker." He opens a drawer in his desk and hands me a blister packet with two blue pills. "Remember, take them half an hour before our next session. I look forward to seeing how you respond."

"So, is this it until next week?"

He nods in the affirmative.

I lean over the desk to shake his hand, ever the professional. It all seems rather simple, other than the pills, and hell, if they work, I'll sure save some money.

I can certainly handle five more weeks of this, no problem.


	2. Session Two

_Session Two_

* * *

I'm running late, as always. I have this inclination to never be on time, regardless of how early I leave. I couldn't decide what car to drive to Arkham—whether to snag my dad's Vette, or take my cherry red Pontiac, both of which would be instant targets in the Narrows. I finally settled for the shitty old VW Gulf in the back of the garage that hasn't had an oil change since the Clinton Administration. It's better to not draw too much attention to ones self—there's some people trawling around the Narrows that might want to have a little talk with me.

Not to mention, during this whole auto crisis, I got caught up in imagining what kind of car he drives, Dr. Crane that is. I imagine it's something subtly pretentious, undoubtedly foreign, and tricky to pronounce. I bet he's meticulous about it, probably has all it's service dates saved in his PDA with little alarms and shit... and I'm definitely going to be at least ten minutes late at this point. I coax the ancient car into starting and bolt out of the driveway, in reverse. I'm not always too careful with my things.

The drive through Gotham is always fun; we live out by the Palisades where my dad can stare out the window at Wayne Manor and dream about rubbing elbows with the long dead Waynes—or perhaps of buying it out under the nose of the old butler that maintains it. If I had my car today, I would be sailing through red lights and weaving in and out of lanes, but this car is rattling it's self to bits, so I obey the laws of traffic, a rare occurrence. Maybe I should tell Dr. Crane. After only one week of therapy, my behavior is already improving! Give him some more shit to put down in his next book.

After a monotonous half hour drive, I sail into the Arkham parking lot, taking my place among the countless other outpatients, all with their shitty little cars. It's a damn good thing that I decided to not bring the Corvette, it would probably get it's tires slashed by some schizophrenic off their medication.

Medication.

And that's when it hits me; I never took those fucking blue pills Dr. Crane gave me. I grab my purse and pour the contents of it out on to the passenger seat. The blister pack of friendly blue pills sits on top of the mess. Using my fingernails, I poke a hole in the foil and pop the pills out in to my palm. They're a powder in a gel capsule... if I just want to make up for lost time...

I pry the capsule open and pour the powder out on to my palm. It's gone, straight up my nose in one long breath. I sputter slightly—it's rough stuff—and crack the other one open. A hundred milligrams, just what the doctor ordered.

* * *

By the time I make it to Dr. Crane's office, I'm absolutely floating. Shapes have lost their boundaries, and flow like syrup; the chair is all over the floor, and I'm wading inside the carpet. My hand sinks through the doorknob and gets stuck in the skeleton of the lock, the metal teeth nip at my hand and I start to cry. I pull my hand back, but the lock won't release me. It sinks angry mental fangs into the meat of my palm and I squeal in pain.

The door releases me with a clench, and I nearly fall over, gasping for breath. It's Dr. Crane, staring at me with a look that makes me want to melt into the floor. He's not much taller than me, but he's somehow cast his shadow over my entire form, enveloping me in darkness.

"Miss Walker, did you forget how to use the door?"

I try to answer him, but I can't do much but sputter and cough, pointing at my hand where the door bit me.

"I see that you seem to have scratched yourself. Do you need a band aid?"

Nothing in the hallway is spinning anymore. The floors have solidified, and my feet are back on solid ground. But, I can't see anything but him. I know without a doubt that if he walks away, the floors will melt again, and this time I'll fall through and drown, and sink forever...

Before I know what I'm doing, I throw myself on at him, crying hysterically.

"The door bit me!" I manage to eek out of my poor air starved lungs.

I can feel myself sinking through him, and I'm absolutely horrified. I can grasp his bones through the skin. My hands are hooked around his collarbone, and if I let go I'll fall right through and never be found ever again and...

"Jessica," he says, without any sort of inflection. I shake my head and come back to sanity, where I'm using him as a support beam and my fingers are pushed into his chest hard enough to bruise. He grabs me by the shoulders and pushes me back up to standing. I wipe my leaky nose on the formerly pristine sleeve of my white button down.

"Into my office, Jessica."

He takes a cursory look of the hallway to make sure no one saw, and then sweeps open the door. I follow, my figurative tail between my legs.

In his office with the door secured, he stares at me with those fucking awful eyes, like he can just suck the answer out of me.

"Those pills you gave me..." I whisper, realizing the cause of my behavior. "Those fucking pills!" I exclaim, my voice reaching a crescendo. "Is that what you would call a fucking _allergic reaction_ , huh?"

He doesn't make a single expression, and my rage intensifies with every second of his apathy.

"You can't just conduct some fucking experiment on seventeen year old girls without any paperwork or parental permission or prescriptions or... what kind of doctor are you?!"

He waits for me to finish my rant, actually tapping his foot on the floor, like he's bored with me. I'm enraged, but before I can continue chastising him, the wind is knocked out of me by an invisible force.

The floor goes sloppy again under my feet, and pools at my ankles.

Everything is black.

* * *

"Welcome back to reality, Miss Walker. I made a phone call to your parents and informed them that our session would be running irregularly late."

I wake up propped up in an armchair off to the side of the room that must be intended as some sort of "reading corner," as if Dr. Crane ever wanted to sit down and read through his own book or something.

"What...the fuck..." I mutter, rubbing my eyes and smearing black streaks of eyeliner over my clenched fists.

"Are you familiar with the symptoms of cocaine psychosis, Jessica?"

"Huh?"

Dr. Crane is sitting at his desk, with his legs crossed (what the fuck is that about) and smirking at me. Like he's a cat with a dead mouse—no—a cornered mouse. I half expect him to lick his jowls or some shit.

"You sit like a girl," I mumble.

"That's not an answer."

My eyes feel extraordinarily heavy, and I'm having trouble keeping my head straight up, if that makes sense. I feel like it's just going to roll right off my shoulders.

"Cocaine psychosis is a condition which occurs most often in frequent stimulant users, characterized by visual, auditory, and sensory hallucinations as well as irrational behavior and mood swings. You appear to have just experienced an episode."

I know exactly what I _experienced_ , and it was no sort of episode.

"Those fucking pills you gave me..."

"Are you referring to the dietary supplement?"

"Some kind of dietary supplement..."

He pulls one of out the pocket of his suit, holding up so I can see the blue color, and pops it in his mouth without a moment's hesitation.

"You really must learn to be more trusting. I'm your psychiatrist after all."

I shake my head in disbelief.

"I'd like to talk to you more about your recent usage patterns, but seeing as you spent our entire session and then some passed out in the corner, and I'm a very busy man, we'll have to discuss this at a later date."

He walks over to his desk and scrawls down something on a post-it note.

"This is my business cell phone. If you experience symptoms of psychosis again, I'd like you to call me."

He hands it to me, and I look down at the piece of paper stuck to my palm. Right underneath the "Arkham Psychiatric Hospital" logo, he's written down what appears to be a completely valid phone number.

"At any time," he clarifies, clearing his throat. I noticed earlier that he doesn't wear a ring. Maybe he's just a lonely psychiatrist, looking for late night phone sex in all the wrong places—like with a seventeen year old patient. He is attractive though—I wouldn't turn him down...

"Miss Walker," he _ahems_ at me. I feel like my face is on fire.

"Yes, Dr. Crane?" I squeak. "You can call me Jessica, you know."

"Jessica," he sighs. "Please call me if you feel another episode coming on, whatever the time may be."

I nod weakly.

He leans in close to me, until his nose is just about touching mine.

My knees are made of jello and I think I'm going to die from the way my heart is racketing around between my ribs, and I'm scared the floor will sink me again, but it doesn't, and he whispers oh-so-low and firm.

"My job is to help you, and I take that responsibility very seriously."

"Okay..." I breathe.

"Do you trust me, Jessica?"

He stares at me, and I swear he pulls my soul out through my own eyes,

"I trust you."

* * *

At home, I'm trying to sleep, but my feels body like it's burning up. It's not like the weird melting of surfaces and matter like earlier, because I can still perceive everything. However, my skin seems to be dancing right off my bones, and my legs twitch like they're doing some sort of unknown dance. I need to get out of this bed right now, I need to get out of my fucking skin.

It feels like I'm coming down off something, but there's no crushing sense of depression, just anxiety and fear; I'm scared of myself.

I don't know what's happening to me, so with shaky hands, I grab my cell phone with Dr. Crane's post-it-note affixed to the front.

He picks up on the second ring, which is unusual, because it's the middle of the night.

"Dr. Crane... it's Jessica. I'm scared."

He doesn't sound tired when he replies, in fact, he sounds almost intrigued.

"Are you seeing things, Jessica?"

"No... no, I'm not... I just know something awful is about to happen, and I feel like my skin is coming off and..."

I can hear him clear his throat on the other end of the line.

"My office is closed at this hour. Would you like to meet me somewhere? There's a diner in midtown that's open all night."

"Sure...uh...okay."

"Can you drive?"

"Yeah, yeah. I just need to get out of my house or something...what's it called?"

"Midtown Diner," he says, very slowly, like he's talking to a mental patient— _oh, right._

"Okay, uh, okay," I mumble, looking down at my slipper clad feet. "I'll be there in half an hour."

* * *

He's waiting outside when I get there, standing beside a white Audi—I was right about the car. He's still wearing a suit, even though it's two in the morning, though his glasses are tucked into his front pocket. My legs have shaken the whole way here, through the burning sensation in my skin is fading into a tingle, like every part of me is sleeping. I practically trip over my own assorted limbs getting out of the car, numb as I am.

Once I approach him, he sticks out his hand to greet me, but before I can reciprocate, I'm taken over by a wave of the strange numbness, and I lose track of my legs. I can't tell if I'm walking forward or backwards or sideways, and I stumble over.

He catches me, I suppose, or maybe I fell into him. I can't be quite certain, but I know that as soon as he has hold of me, I start sobbing, tears punctuated with shudders and snorts of mucus. It's lovely, really.

"This never happens to me, it's never happened before; I don't know what's wrong with me."

I'm fucking wailing at this point, and it's horrifically embarrassing, but I can't make myself stop. The lights of the diner behind me are too bright and I'm being swallowed up by everything.

"I snorted the pills today," I sob. "The ones you told me to take, I forgot about them, so I just snorted them and now I'm all like this and I can't feel my legs and I don't even know what's wrong with me..."

To my extreme surprise, he reaches to my face and pulls a lock of hair behind my ear.

"It's going to be okay, Jessica. Your body is reacting poorly to detox."

"Detox?" I ask with a sniffle.

He nods, serene and all knowing.

"The highly concentrated dose of the supplement you took has pushed your body into a state of detoxification."

I wipe my eyes and push myself away from him.

"So, what do I do?"

Without missing a beat, he answers.

"Keep taking the pills at regular intervals."

He pulls another blister pack out of his pocket, but this one is full.

"50 milligrams, once a day. This should keep the symptoms of detoxification at bay—provided that you don't use while you're taking them."

Okay. I will do anything to keep this feeling from coming back, even if it means ditching my favorite past time. He hands me the pack with seven pills in it.

"Don't you have any more?" I ask.

He smiles at me, but it's not sincere. I feel unsettled.

"I need to make sure you come back next week."

I nod, as if it all makes sense.

He looks around the parking lot and reaches back into the veritable pharmacy in his pants pocket.

"Take this when you get back home. It's Ambien."

"Don't you need to prescribe this sort of thing?" I ask.

He shrugs. _Fucking shrugs._

"I don't think you have any incentive to report me, and I don't believe that anyone would doubt you gained it through anything but your own, illicit means. Take it when you go home; it will help you sleep." He looks over his shoulder to the diner.

"Did you want to get some coffee?"

I shake my head.

"No, I think I need to go home..."

"I'll see you next week, Miss Walker. Remember, the pills go in your mouth."

I walk back to my car, with the eerie sensation that he's following me somehow, and it lasts the whole way home. Even though I don't see anyone in my mirrors, I can't shake his presence, and that creepy smile of his, and the way he pulled my hair back from my face, and then myself earlier with hands buried into his ivory white skin...

I pull into the driveway and pop the Ambien, not bothering to wait until I get back up to my bedroom.

This business with Dr. Crane may be less simple than I assumed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I find that in many villain & OC fics, the character arc usually consists of a sweet girl being corrupted by a sinister madman. While this is a perfectly legitimate and interesting plot, with Jessica, I wanted to try something a bit different. Jessica is not meant to be a nice girl. She's a spoiled rich chick that blows her parent's money on drugs. Though, I also intended for her being someone whom the reader could relate to, in the way she responds to crisis situations. I hope you all feel that the characterization I intended was apparent in this chapter, and I'd love to hear your feedback.


	3. Session Three

_Session Three_

* * *

"Seeing as our last session was _interrupted_ , I'm going to require your full cooperation today."

I'm sitting across the desk from Dr. Crane, legs politely crossed and hair up in a tight ponytail. I am the very image of cooperation.

"I'm going to get right to the matter at hand, if you don't mind."

"Of course not."

He nods. _Good girl, keep it up and you'll get a biscuit._

"The most apparent issue with your behavior is the pattern of impulsive and potentially harmful activities. Theft, drug use, truancy... in my profession, I've found that the root of many of these 'spur of the moment' behaviors is some sort of phobia, latent or explicit... you know what those terms mean, correct?"

I snort.

"Of course."

"Particularly drug use and truancy, which are generally avoidance behaviors. Also, seeing as these behaviors began quite suddenly, I've made the assumption that something traumatic occurred around the time of your seventeenth birthday?"

"Do you know what they say about assumptions, Dr. Crane?" I say, with a smart ass smile.

"Avoidance, Miss Walker?"

"Jessica. Just Jessica, please."

He taps his pen against the desk, impatient. It's expensive metal, and the ping resounds through the room. I bet it's one of those brick heavy thirty dollar pens, that you get in a fancy ass case from your Alma Mater.

"Jessica. Are you avoiding the question?"

Since when did he try to be a real shrink, instead of just giving me suspicious pills and prowling around at diners?

"I think you're avoiding the fact that you gave me Ambien without a prescription last week," I snap back, the nasty smile making a resurgence. Two can play at this game, _Jonathan Crane._ "And that those nice 'herbal supplements' you gave me, the ones that made me go in to detox? You didn't tell me they would do that!"

He taps the infernal pen and rubs his temple with his left hand, like I'm giving him a migraine. I fucking hope I am.

"Any substance can be harmful if used incorrectly. If I gave you gasoline for your car, and you dumped it on the engine, I wouldn't be liable for the car's explosion. And if I gave you an herbal supplement to be taken orally, which you snorted straight into the bloodstream, I am not liable for your reaction. Now, Jessica, if we could move on from this nonsense... though, snorting the pills is an excellent example of impulsive and destructive behavior."

I'm momentarily tongue tied, and he takes advantage of it, taking his glasses off under the pretense of rubbing the lenses.

"I don't think you're a bad girl, Jessica. I don't think so at all. And I'm here to help you. Just tell me... did something happen to you on your seventeenth birthday?"

My cheeks are flushed. His voice is uncommonly soft and kind, with a hint of something more under the surface. And of course, he's got me in that stare again—if he was a super villain, his power would probably be hypnosis or something.

"Nothing happened to me. Sorry to disappoint you, but that's the truth. I honestly wish I had a better explanation, but I don't. I didn't get raped, no one died, I didn't lose any friends... I just started getting bored."

It's the truth.

He looks frustrated, but doesn't press the matter further, just yet. Instead, he shuffles around some of the papers on his desk.

"Have you applied to college yet, Jessica?"

I practically laugh.

"My college fund is paying your salary. And no, I haven't."

"It's May of your senior year of high school."

"I'm aware," I respond, zero inflection.

"You go to Saint Mary's... I believe they have the highest rate of graduates who go on to universities in the city."

"I guess I'll just have to be the Susanna Kaysen then."

"Excuse me?"

"You know... like Girl, Interrupted?"

He stares at me with a blank expression.

"You know... the book about the girl with borderline personality disorder... doesn't go to college like all her other classmates because she's in a mental hospital..."

"I don't participate in pop psychology," he says, with an unbearably pretentious expression.

"Whatever; you're hopeless. No, I am not planning on going to college."

"Is there a reason for that?"

"Eh, never got around to the SAT's, all that shit."

"I see..." he's scribbling down something about my _pattern of avoidance behavior_ I assume.

"So, doc, what do you think I'm afraid of?"

"Responsibility," he says, all deadly fucking serious.

"Oh God, you sound like my mother."

He frowns at me. It's almost cute.

"Perhaps you should listen to her more often."

I roll my eyes. So much for cooperation.

"Now then, there's a few questions I need to ask you now which might make you feel somewhat uncomfortable. Please try to cooperate with me as much as possible, but let me know if a question bothers you."

So, the doctor who dispenses sleeping pills and "herbal supplements" that make me shake is now concerned about my comfort? Of fucking course. He's probably going to ask me about sex now, and is covering his ass from a harassment lawsuit.

"Are you, or have you been sexually active in the past?"

Nailed it!

"There was a one night stand, back a couple of months ago... I don't remember it terribly well."

He honestly looks a bit concerned.

"And did you use protection?"

"Don't remember. It was eight months ago though, so..."

He frowns.

"Have you been tested for HIV?"

I nod. I'm not fucking stupid.

"Parents insisted upon it after the whole _arrested_ thing."

"Of course. And there's no serious relationship, correct?"

"Nope. Truthfully, I'm more interested in older guys."

I give him a coy grin. He's unaffected, of course.

"How much older?"

This has the potential to be amusing.

"How old are you, by chance, Dr. Crane?"

"Why, do you find me attractive?"

Well, shit. He's going along with it.

"This is making me uncomfortable," I mumble.

"Don't lie to me Jessica. You love doing this sort of thing. You wanted to get a reaction out of me, and you did." He's pissed as hell, I can tell, and he's staring at me and making me feel all of two inches tall.

"...sorry," I whisper.

"I'm twenty-eight."

I'm surprised. He looks really young, but I just assumed he was one of those lucky bastards that doesn't age till they're like, forty.

"Well, fuck me. You're practically my age. How are you a psychiatrist?"

"I was a professor briefly as well. I got my MD in six years; it was an accelerated program. And, I would respectfully decline."

My face is _on fire._

"That's... it's a figure of speech."

"Reckless behavior and attempts to manipulate others... those don't sound like desirable personality traits, do they, Jessica?"

"I guess you better lock me up, Doctor."

"Are you still using innuendo, or are you suggesting that you be admitted?"

If I was drinking something, I would have spit it all over the table.

"Neither."

"In that case, I think you can stop the games."

He has this fucking irritating way of cutting right into me when I'm in the middle of a thought. I let out a sigh.

"Am I exhausting you, Jessica?"

I raise an eyebrow at him.

"Who's using innuendo now?"

He shakes his head at me and takes some notes down.

"How have you been doing with sobriety?"

"Excellent, actually."

He looks up at me, as if he can suck the truth out of me right through his eyes.

"Well then, I think we have a pretty solid basis to go on. We'll work on cognitive behavior therapy next week. Continue taking the supplements, and abstaining from narcotics..."

"Brush my teeth, look both ways before I cross the street?"

"Of course," he says. "Always.

* * *

I've be a damn good girl all week: getting to school on time, avoiding drugs, taking my pills _in my mouth_ , as Dr. Crane felt the need to specify. It's Friday night, and I've got a whole week before I need to go back for my little audience with Dr. Crane. I got a text from a friend of mine about a little party going on down by the docks tonight. I'll reward myself with some dancing, maybe a drink or two.

So, I swap out my Catholic school issue khaki's and polo for a tight silver skirt and a loose black tank top, before throwing on some makeup that would make the sisters wince. I'm all done up in red lips and smoky eyes with curls in my hair. I accent the look with my darling gold necklace, which I freed from the jewelry counter almost a year ago. Oh, how time flies. I imagine how Dr. Crane would react if I came to therapy all tarted up, instead of in my plain Jane polo's and button downs.

He'd either make some snide-ass remark, or just ignore it all together, pompous dick that he is.

When the clock strikes midnight, I do not turn into a pumpkin, but rather I take my exit. My poor boring parents are sleeping like bricks, and I make it out of the house completely unheard, quite a feat in four inch heels. Traffic is pretty light tonight—the drunks have settled into their favorite bar stool by now—and I make it to the docks in about twenty minutes. The party is in a warehouse; a cliché if I've ever heard one. The light is reflecting off the surface of the chemical laden water at the docks, and it shines with a spooky luminescence, glowing white and yellow and green. It illuminates the hulking silhouette of Arkham Hospital, which towers over the slums, in what appears to be a tragic case of poor zoning. In actuality, the Narrows weren't always so scummy, and the hospital has been around since the 1800's or so. The general consensus is that the insane will outlive the broke.

I park my car by a rusty old storage container that looks like it hasn't been used in years and make my way to the warehouse. I can feel the vibrations of the bass from whatever dance track is blaring. When I get inside, the crowd is decidedly rave-like. I'm in a mass of multicolored bodies, some smeared with paint that glows in the black light, others sucking on pacifiers, and everyone's arms are up to their elbows in rainbow pony bead bracelets. Girls throw themselves around in circles to the beat of the music, not really dancing, just swaying.

I find my friend through the swarm of raver girls—she's the only one here not dressed in rainbows. Her name is Sara, and she's the only girl with _similar interests_ that I ever met in my dump of a school. Sara is done up like myself, in clothes that wouldn't look too out of place next to a bottle of Cristal and a talentless rapper. She's swaying too though, like all the other girls here. When she spots me, she comes running to me and pulls me into her arms. Sara isn't a terribly affectionate person, but she's clinging on to me like a pretty blonde leech.

"I'm so glad you made it, Jessy Bell!"

Who the fuck is _Jessy Bell_.

"Sara, hey... what's up?" I say, cautious.

"I'm great... I feel fucking awesome, oh man. You gotta try this shit with me, mmkay? It's fucking... it's like an _awakening,_ you know what I mean?"

She's still clinging on to me this whole time, and just about screaming in my ear.

"I'm done with coke, Sara."

Sara shakes her head vehemently.

"It's not coke, it's E! You'll love it, oh my God!"

She pulls herself off me long enough to open her hand and display a palm full of pink pills with what looks like Pikachu printed on them.

"It's...non habitual form..." she struggles to speak, clearly parroting something she was told earlier. Non-habit forming, eh? Pikachu grinned up at me from the pink tablets, so I snatch them up out of her hand and dry swallow. What the hell? It's the weekend.

"This is going to be so much fun, Jessy!"

I'm not a fan of the new nickname.

* * *

Everything passes by in a beautiful array of lights and colors. The beat of the music is inside me, it travels through my veins into my heart and illuminates my entire body.

As a crowd, we dance together in beautiful harmony together, sliding our arms around each other in an embrace that feels so intimate and exciting—someone else's skin on my own—I could almost call it orgasmic.

Sara grabs me by the arm, lovely and kind Sara, and tells me we need to go outside and get some air.

"People sweat to death if they don't take a break!"

It's cool outside, and I sit down with my back to the slick concrete walls. I can still feel the boom of the music in my bones, and it comforts me.

"Hey, look, it's the bunny men!" Sara yells, giggling herself into a bent over frenzy.

"What..." I begin, but then I see it. A group of dock workers are tossing stuffed toy rabbits into the back of a station wagon.

"Hey, fuck off, junkies!" one of the workers yells, and the negativity boils off him, in great angry clouds of red. It makes me sad to see such discontent.

"You should come in and dance with us!" I yell, hoping that my positive energy can make a difference in this man's life.

"Oh cutie, if I wasn't working, we could do more than dance."

I shake my head. The man is not someone I would want to sleep with. He's big and ruddy and calloused, like his insides have expanded too far for his skin. I feel a pang of sympathy for him.

"What seems to be the matter?"

The voice is strangely familiar.

The passenger door of the station wagon opens, and to my immense surprise, Dr. Crane walks out of it.

"Oh my God, Doc—Jonathan!"

I struggle to remember his first name for a moment, but it was on the cover of his book. Dr. Jonathan Crane. What a nice name. He's really a good guy, and I've misjudged him terribly—dedicating your life to help the mentally ill—how noble. I should give him a hug; I think he would like that.

"Jessica—what are you doing –what!"

I run across the sparse parking lot separating us and embrace him. His eyes are stunning with the moonlight refracting off them, and for a second, that's all I can see.

"Miss Walker, this is incredibly irregular..."

Dr. Crane is really a gorgeous man, now that I'm taking a good look at him. He has such a nice face.

"Miss Walker, why are you touching me..."

I want him to dance with me, I decide, so I wrap my arms around his shoulders and sway. In the distance, I hear someone yell, "Jessy's dancing with the bunny guy!"

His eyes are absolutely gleaming tonight, stellar blue illuminated by the moon, and they're so spellbinding, that I feel myself losing control of myself, and so I lean in and kiss him on the lips. They're soft.

Then I feel two heavy arms, which are most certainly not Dr. Crane's, latch on to my shoulders, and pull me away from him. I notice now he's not wearing his normal suit, but khaki pants and a dark knit sweater. He looks almost normal, like someone I would know outside of Arkham...

The arms pull me down to the ground, and the last thing I see is Dr. Crane staring down at me, before the world goes black.


	4. Session Four

_Session Four_

* * *

"I understand you got yourself into some trouble over the weekend, Jessica? Your admission to Gotham General says that you had drugs in your system, and that you don't remember the incident."

I swear to God, he just licked his teeth like the big bad wolf. He's enjoying watching me squirm.

"I guess not," I say, though not quite as snappy as usual. I haven't felt like myself since I got out of the hospital on Sunday. My memory of the weekend is hazy. Bright lights, people dancing, and then screams. I was standing up, and then I was laying on the ground. I saw things I didn't understand: an image of myself as it was through an old mirror, screaming and covered in blood. And in the midst of all of it, I felt Dr. Crane's presence there. I can't explain it. It was like he was inside of my head, even though he must have been sitting at home when the assault occurred. And even though he hangs around diners late at night, there's less than a fine line between being a hungry insomniac and paling around with drug dealers.

"How much do you remember?"

He's never seemed so interested in what I have to say; he's actually leaning into his desk and tapping his foot on the floor. It's kind of freaking me out, to be honest.

"I was at a party... I took something, I don't know. A friend gave it to me. And then we went outside... and the last thing I remember is someone tackling me to the ground. I supposedly lost a good deal of blood from the gash on my forehead. I even had hallucinations in the ambulance."

"What did you see?"

I'm not sure if my face is going red, because the truth of what I saw in the ambulance is a little more complicated than I would like to share with Dr. Crane.

I clear my throat.

"Um... you ever have like, you know—sex dreams?"

He stares at me like I just sprouted a second head. This can't possibly be awkward for him, he's a psychiatrist, for God's sake. He probably hears a deviant sex confession every day—real or imagined—from one of the more acutely disturbed patients. I'm almost positive at this point that he's toying with me.

"It's a normal psychological phenomena."

"So, yeah. I had hallucinations like that."

He purses his lips a little bit, like he's thinking.

"And did these have any sort of... greater significance to you?"

I make a little nervous laugh.

"Well, uh, you were..."

He raises an eyebrow. I'm blood fucking red, I can feel it. I shouldn't have said a thing. I'm going to melt into the Goddamn floor, for real this time.

"That's normal, to think about authority figures in a sexual context." All serious and calculating. And then I see a smile beginning to form at the corner of his lips. "You do find me attractive, don't you?"

**What. The. Fuck.**

This has got to be a serious breach of some sort of doctor patient professionalism shit, and I should just up and leave right now. I should sue Dr. Crane's ass, for giving me drugs without a prescription and sexual harassment and...

"I think you're attractive, Jessica."

The rational part of my brain is currently making a list of the reasons I should be horrified by this, beginning with the fact that I am seventeen, I am his patient, I am ten years younger than him, I am his fucking _patient._ But, the nonsensical and horny side of my brain can't be bothered with things like "logic," and instead has a one way path straight to my mouth.

"Oh my God, really?"

It also is evidently a valley girl.

" _Really._ " He smiles.

I bite down hard on my lip to the point where I almost draw blood, because this cannot really be happening to me. I need to come back to reality, this is obviously some sort of residual trip from that ridiculous fucking ecstasy I took, and if I get through this, I will be sober forever...

"In fact, I think you're beautiful."

I'm so confused, and my eyes are stinging and I don't understand what's going on.

"Shh, don't cry," he says, almost soft. "There's no need to cry."

"No one's ever called me beautiful before," I spit out.

Fuck—critical systems going down. We've sprung a leak, captain!

I'm crying. Big, ugly, shameful tears. _No one's_ ever called me beautiful.

"You don't like yourself very much—do you?"

I lean over to grab a tissue from his desk, and he lays a hand down on my wrist.

"I think you're a good person, Jessica. I like you."

"Stop it..." I gasp, through a disgusting mixture of tears and mucus.

While I'm still bent over the desk, wrist immobilized, he stands up from his chair and places a light kiss on my forehead.

"It's okay. You don't need to fight me..."

I'm whimpering. I feel like I don't have any control over my own emotions anymore.

"I don't _want_ to fight you," I mumble.

"You're incredibly unhappy, Jessica. What made you like this?"

I shake my head.

"I don't know... I really don't know."

"Think... did something happen to you? Is there something you've been holding back? I want to help you."

"That's the thing though... nothing _happened_. I just woke up one day and realized that I needed to decide, decide everything. That suddenly my life was on the line, and every choice I made would affect me forever. That nothing had prepared me for this, certainly not the years of prep school bullshit. And that in seventeen years I didn't do anything worthwhile. No one knew who I even was."

"You're afraid..." he says, staring right into my eyes. "You're so afraid."

And then the phone rings.

I nearly fall over backwards into my chair. The entire encounter has been so intense, the sudden noise hits me like a shockwave. Dr. Crane seems a bit off-put as well. He shakes his head and mumbles something about "his office hours," but picks up the phone all the same.

"Dr. Jonathan Crane, Arkham Criminal Psychiatry speaking."

His expression quickly turns sour as the receiver blares our some angry static.

"Yes, Miss Dawes, I am aware. I don't think that we should be discussing this over the phone... I would be more than willing to meet you in person, however you must understand that I am always on call... I can't give you an exact date and time now, I'm in a session with an outpatient... I am _trying_ to be cooperative with your office, but you've been making it increasingly difficult for me. And why have I not been in contact with any other members of the District Attorney's office?"

He taps his hand on his desk. I'm more confused than anything at this point, still reeling from the kiss and the tears and my own stupid fucking emotions.

"Yes, I'll be in touch. Now, if you would excuse me, I'm currently with a patient."

He lets the receiver drop back into the cradle, looking vaguely satisfied as it clatters and disconnects. He coughs like he's clearing his throat. My eyes are still hot.

"Now then. My apologies for the interruption. There's a hothead in the district attorney's office who's too concerned with cross-examining my patients to put on a bra in the morning."

I give him a confused glance, but it doesn't seem to register, because he's suddenly grabbing at papers.

"Now then, your toxicology reports from the hospital found alcohol—no surprise there—MDMA, or ecstasy, as you might have been told it was, and most interesting, a derivative of _Nymphaea caerulea,_ with a hint of neurotoxin. Quite a party."

And suddenly, we're asshole doctor and strung out patient again.

"What's that?" I ask, taking the bait, so he can raise his nose up an inch and enlighten me.

"Have you ever heard of the lotus eaters? I wouldn't consider them role models."

Yup. I'd respond with some sort of equally arrogant comeback, but I'm too stunned from this emotional fucking roller coaster he's strapped me into.

"No..." I say, soft. Maybe he'll get a hint. I doubt it.

"It's a species of water lily, supposedly with hallucinogenic properties. I've never heard of anyone serving it on crackers, with a side of puffer fish liver."

I don't know why he's doing this. I feel my eyes welling up again. It's so embarrassing. No one's ever made me feel like this before... he's fucking with me. He's fucking with me so bad.

"Why would that have..." I begin. He cuts me off with a little shrug.

"People are willing to try almost anything to see if it will give them a fix. Methamphetamine is made of lantern oil, battery acid, and cough medicine, and it's shot right into the bloodstream."

My eyes widen. Thank God I never tried that shit.

"Anyway, I assume your primary doctor is going to discuss these results with you in greater detail. They'll most likely be interested in the lotus derivative. I've seen it in the toxicology reports of several patients here, though usually the more violent ones upon admittance. Have you considered the possibility that you may have engaged someone in a fight?"

I nod my head.

"I'm considering every possibility. I don't remember a thing."

He scribbles something down. I watch his eyes to see if a hint of the affectionate Dr. Crane is back, but there's no sign.

"Well, as your psychiatrist, I'd recommend you don't do that again."

Nope. Maybe he's got split personalities. That must be why he got into psychology.

"Is there anything else you want to talk about?"

Well, other than the fact that he kissed me a moment ago, no.

I shake my head no, and he digs into his desk drawer for the blister pack of seven pills he gives me every week. I reach out my hand to accept them, and he places them down in my palm, letting his hand linger there.

"I think we're very close to a breakthrough," he says, putting enough pressure down on me that my arm drops down against the desk. "And I'm very excited for you. I try not to become too attached to my patients, you understand, seeing as most of them wouldn't hesitate to shoot me if they saw me on the street, so working with you has been a...pleasure."

Now we're in a sort of middle state between the two personas, I suppose. He's practically crushing my arm against the edge of his desk. I fidget, but he doesn't relent.

"I feel like six sessions just isn't enough time for me to get to know you. I've taken an interest in your case... would you care to see me outside of the office tomorrow night?"

I should say no, because this is way out of line, and he's insane, and playing with my emotions. But, my once horny, now desperate for approval impulsive side is telling him yes before I can process the extent to which Dr. Crane is fucking with my head.

So now we have a dinner date tomorrow.

_Fan-fucking-tastic._

* * *

It's that old diner, the one we met up at when I was freaking out. I see his pretentious little Audi sitting in the parking lot, the whole way in the back. You can tell that he's the kind of guy that parks in two spaces when he goes to Wal-Mart so no one can graze his car with their door or something. I smirk and pull in right next to him. I bet he'd hate some red paint on his doors, though I decide against smashing his car.

His face might have to suffice.

I've been so fucking confused by him since yesterday. He bounces between moods and emotions so quickly, and he drags me along for the ride.

I'm still in my typical school uniform type clothes today: khaki's and a blue cardigan. No use in him thinking that this is a special occasion for me. I mean, it's special in that I shouldn't be doing it, but you get what I mean. I'm not going to make a big deal out of this. I'm just meeting up with him. That's normal, right?

You see it in movies and shit all the time.

Then again, I've never seen a movie where the patient didn't fuck their psychiatrist, so maybe I'm going off an unrealistic premise here.

Speaking of which, the sex dreams happened again last night, and I woke up absolutely _horrified_ by my own brain rebelling in such a way. Apparently I don't need puffer fish liver spread on a cracker to think about him in that way. I mean, he's cute and all, in that bookish sort of way.

And he kept calling me beautiful.

In the dream that is.

I shouldn't be so easily affected by these sorts of things. Next thing I know, I'll be stripping in some club called "Heaven's Night" with a butterfly tattooed on my ass, and crying about my nonexistent daddy issues.

The diner isn't what I would call sweet, but it's kind of homey, in a sort of ill-lit, scuffed floor kind of way. All the seats are red vinyl booths, with a bit of fraying around the edges. All the waitresses have big lacquered hair and pouty red lips, like they're in an 80's movie or something. One walks past me and I choke on a cloud of hairspray. It doesn't seem like the sort of place anal retentive Dr. Crane would spend his time. But, there he is, sitting over a cup of coffee in the corner with a newspaper on the table, in a blue sweater. Oh sweet Jesus, we match. I'm tempted to just leave now.

I give him an awkward wave, and he nods in recognition. Of course he wouldn't wave back. I slide into the seat and look at the newspaper.

"More people dying, huh?" I ask. The headline says something about another shooting in the Narrows. No one keeps track anymore.

"Gothamites excel at population control," he replies sharply.

"That's a nice attitude for a doctor," I laugh. He shrugs and takes a swig of coffee.

"How have you been feeling, Jessica?"

"Eh, as fine as I can considering all that blood loss. No weird neurotoxin effects yet."

"Good, that's good. Do you know why I asked you to come here tonight?"

_Because you're a creep and I have no impulse control when it comes to attractive men._

"Because you thought we could make more progress?"

He slowly nods.

"I'm not in psychiatry for the money. I do it because I'm interested in people."

"Do I interest you, Dr. Crane?"

"Oh, you fascinate me," he says, quite serious. It's kind of concerning.

A waitress stops by and hands me a menu. I ask for eggs and bacon—nothing like breakfast from a diner. He orders more coffee. The waitress calls him Jonathan and smiles. He doesn't smile back.

Asshole.

He's such an asshole. What am I doing?

I bet he gives shitty tips.

"Now, from what you told me at our last session... you fear not doing things that are worthwhile?"

"Uh... I guess?"

He frowns. Wrong answer, Jessica!

"I mean, I guess I'm afraid of being bored."

He clucks his tongue with audible disapproval this time.

"Of being bored?"

"Yeah, you know... not living life to the fullest or whatever." I roll my eyes. It's a cliche'd phrase.

"Not living life to the fullest... what do you think constitutes as a full life, Jessica?"

"Well, certainly not one spent doing drugs, or harassing patients at diners."

He gives me a little smile.

"I see. So, by your definition, we're both not living life to the fullest?"

"I don't suppose so."

My food comes, and I listen to him ramble on about different philosophies of life and purpose, while I, ever so graceful, stuff my face with eggs.

When the check comes, he pulls mine away from me.

"Allow me. I invited you, after all."

"So what, is this is a date?" I say with a laugh.

"It's whatever you feel most comfortable calling it."

"What is your issue? Are you leading me on or something?" I ask, half joking, but genuinely confused.

"Leading you on to what?"

I shake my head.

"You don't... I don't even know. You're insane. It's like you're two different people."

He raises an eyebrow.

"So I've been told."

"What is that even supposed to _mean_?"

"Most people have masks. I'm no different."

He's so fucking cryptic. It's going to drive me nuts.

"Look, Dr. Crane, thanks for dinner. It was great. I'm not so sure about how much progress we're making into my psyche, so I'm going to have to leave."

I stand up and brush my lap off of toast crumbs. He stands too and reaches out his hand to shake mine. I extend, and he pulls me into the most awkward hug I have ever been privy to in my life.

"Don't bother yourself with me, Jessica," he whispers in my ear. "Don't even think about me."

I stumble out of the diner, completely dazed, practically tripping over my own two feet.

The drive back home is torturous; I feel tears welling up behind my eyes, again.

Dr. Crane is playing with me, and I'm losing.


End file.
